


Shostakovich's Waltz No. 2

by Anonymous



Series: Rare Pairs [1]
Category: Hiveswap
Genre: Class Differences, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Cowgirls and Pirates, F/F, Femslash February, Femslash February 2020, Innuendo, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22643047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "You’ve known better girls, and you’ve known smoother rides. But that was Plato’s cave. Those were pale shadows of this girl, of this ride."Skylla gets invited to a masquerade. Remele doesn't.
Relationships: Skylla Koriga/Remele Namaaq
Series: Rare Pairs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804840
Comments: 11
Kudos: 17
Collections: Anonymous





	Shostakovich's Waltz No. 2

That you haven’t even opened the envelope in your hands means very little. In fact, opening it promises to confirm all your worst fears: pity, humiliation, a cruel joke. No, you make your small deductions from the wrapping. A cream-colored, smooth paper envelope. It’s sealed with a blue wax seal and the distinguished arrow-shaped sigil. No name addressed on the front; the sheer weight of the thing isn’t strictly metaphorical. Highbloods don’t make mistakes. You’re invited, written in bold, looping script is all you need to know.

You tear open the top of the envelope with the straight edge of your claw. Then you set it on the table without removing the contents. Bad news always goes well with a cup of strong, black tea. Ladyy follows you into the kitchen, close to your hip. If she’s picking up on your discomfort, then you know you need to rip that medical adhesive strip off posthaste. No use in wallowing when your lusus might fuss.

The kettle boils; you toss a bone to Ladyy and, on a whim, you grab a biscuit to sweeten the bitter taste in your mouth.

Even with an audience of one, you hate to be the punchline. 

The first thing you do when you get back to the table is to spill a drop of tea onto your bad omen. A smile forms on your face; everything feels more real with a little mess. You remove the contents, taking the time to savor the feel of the paper. That’s what highbloods do, you’re pretty sure.

It’s the smallest act of rebellion you can muster; the lowest of the low taking her time with things. For now, you have all the time and luxury in the world. You can understand how they get so sucked into this lifestyle. 

You skim the invitation. As usual, highbloods use a thousand flowery words to say one simple thing: you’re invited. It’s no fluke, your name is there, written in a bold, shimmery copper. 

A masquerade ball. Hell, you don’t know a waltz from square dancing but that will not stop you. With an adventure on the near horizons, you can barely keep still. Highbloods will be snooty; you’ll have your work cut out for you. You don’t even know what people wear at masquerades, excluding the masks. But there’s one thing you hold above all others. In spite of the dirty looks, in spite of being under-dressed, well…

You’ve always loved to dance.

* * *

Figuring out your costume wasn’t ever the issue. If you’re under-dressed, then everyone will assume you’re dressed up as a poor person. The best disguise is always hiding in plain sight.

Manners, too, are more challenging in theory. You have enough charm for every highblood attending. You toss that behind you as a non-issue.

No, your anxiety stems from a deceptively simple problem: transportation. As a lowblood, Alternia denies you access to the funds that might buy you a car. Worse, as a country rustblood, you lack even the courtesy of a nearby omniscuttlebus. 

It might be easy to cash in a favor, but you despise the thought of being in someone else’s debt. You study the address, visualize a map of the area; it’s too far to walk on foot.

With a sigh, you lean back against Samson. He lets out a nicker of surprise before shoving his face back into the hay. Every obstacle you’ve come against merely required creative answers; to come to a halt over something so meaningless... 

Samson whips his head up, flinging hay everywhere. You laugh as you remove your hat, shaking the hay out of your hair. Out of habit, your hand finds his withers and you give him a scratch. His lips wiggle, his social instinct to groom you overwhelming before he brings his mouth to your back to return the favor.

“Silly boy,” you shove his head out of the way and he goes back to his snacking. Fat, food motivated Samson; a fond smile lights up on your face as if to spite your bad mood.

It’s not a bad idea. If you’re to be conscripted soon, there’s no point in keeping your stables so flush and full of livestock. And if any horse were to find their way home without you, on the sole basis of an easy meal, it would be Samson. But you can’t help but consider the worse outcomes: Samson never coming home. Samson getting lost, scared and alone… Shucks, but you have to laugh at yourself. Assigning emotions to livestock never gets you anywhere but stuck in a rut. 

There’s a harsh tug on your subconscious as you consider the appeal. Striding in on a dark horse, resplendent in your best boots and poncho, and completely unknown, mask or not. Yes, that’s exactly right. Regardless of your fears, this is the way to do things. 

* * *

One of the core tenets of cowgirls is: always know when to make an entrance, and make it well.

Samson has a smooth gait; he’s too lazy to get properly prancing. His long strides move you forward with enough momentum to catch your poncho. The weight of his walk has your spurs jingle-jangling in rhythm. It's all about the drama. 

You hear the party before you see it: murmurs of conversation undercut by a lively classical tune. Samson brings you up to the low stone wall. It's a wall more for show than security, which tells you all you need to know about your host. 

Lost in the drama, you run your hand over the top of the stones. Some trolls turn to look at you. With a slouch, you tilt your hat at them, both acknowledging their curious stares and keeping your face hidden.

Out of view, you replace your hat and continue to run your hand over the wall until… Bingo! A pair of masks, abandoned in favor of, if you’re judging the sounds correctly, making out with gusto. Suckers! It takes no effort at all to slip them beneath your poncho and ride on.

When a wall of hedges bisects you from the party, you sit up to your full height and take a look down at the masks. One is clearly harlequin themed; you throw that one into the bushes. The other is orange and white, wrought with suggestive spirals. It’s not perfect, but it will have to do. With some finagling, you manage to tie the ribbons of the mask behind your head without disturbing your hat.

At last, you reach the entrance. Are you supposed to walk right in? About forty trolls, ranging from cerulean to purple, are mingling right in front of the stately arches. You approach them with the same, steady gait. Truth be told, Samson makes for an impressive figure but he isn’t much for looming or menacing or, frankly, moving at anything above “leisurely” in any capacity. 

Summoning all the courage and confidence you possess, you execute a perfect dismount, landing on your feet with the loud jingle of your spurs. You remove the reins from Samson’s bitless bridle, circling them up and attaching them to your belt. Then, you pat him on the butt and he mozies on home. 

There goes your ride. It’s possible this plan wasn’t as well thought out as you’d originally planned. But now’s not the time to show hesitation: you have the eyes of roughly half the crowd.

Looking around, you notice you’re the only one in brown.

* * *

Walking up to the entrance takes a lifetime. Highbloods stare before turning to their small groups, talking amongst themselves and snickering cruelly. They can’t help it; their kind suffers from the troll disease called ‘bad taste.’ There’s no point in feeling bad about it. These are clearly the less desirable of their kind anyway, exiled outside of the party to snark their petty judgment away from the crowd. 

A clown blows a foul-smelling smoke at you before beckoning you over. Your steps falter as reality comes crashing down around you. It is very, very likely that you are the only lowblood here. You’ve put yourself in some serious danger, and for what? A sense of adventure? To challenge yourself? It all seems so stupid on this side of the present. 

Before you can stew in your mix of conflicting emotions, a blueblood stops you with a hand to your bicep. The poncho stops your body heat from reaching their cold hands. 

“Invitation?” they ask in their lilting, aristocratic accent. You ruffle through your pockets before holding it out to them. Amazingly, your hands are steady as you pass it to him. They look the text up and down before they look you up and down. You put your hands on your hips as you find your strength through defiance.

“Nice… horse,” they finally get out, smirking at you. “And what, pray tell, are you supposed to be?” 

You stammer before even thinking of a reply. Was it too much to hope it was obvious?

A woman in line behind you gets tired of waiting.

“Never seen a western before?” she says with a very silly, put-on accent. Her hand drops lightly to your waist as she ushers you through, flashing her invite on the way in. The bouncer scoffs, but they let you through regardless. Your companion winks at you from behind her mask, leaving you with the blank yellow of her right eye. You take a quick category of her. Mismatched eyes, one blank, one with an “x marks the spot” pupil. Yellow-on-cerulean pants beneath a white linen shirt, daringly low-cut. Distinctive hooked horn. She’s cerulean through and through. 

“I’ve never met a lowblood with such an eye for forgery.” It’s almost ironic that the one time you’re  _ genuinely _ invited to some hoity-toity party, you’re accused of fraud. “You have a gift,” she leans into you, comparing hers to yours. “I think mine was better, though, don’t you?” She mock whispers.

You can’t help but throw your head back and laugh. 

She grins at you, her comparatively small mouth shading her expression in varying shades of ‘smug’ and ‘self-satisfied.’ Her shoulder brushes yours as she winks at you, her skin chilly through the thin linen. And before you know it, she’s off without a backward glance. 

You rub your shoulder as you watch her walk away. It’s almost like your skin absorbed her chill; there’s a small, cold spot that she left in the one place your poncho doesn’t cover. Warmth blooms in your chest, though you’re not sure why. Basic decency is the least you deserve, and it’s not like she was kind. 

But she gets lost in the crowd, and, with time, so do you.

* * *

Everything comes to you in flashes: you clutch something cold and hard. Oh! It’s, as the highbloods say, a “beer.” You take a sip, relishing in the savory, bitter tang of it. A woman is dancing close in front of you- you realize you are dancing, too- clad in an ostentatious cape. Her cape is machine embroidered, gems sewn in haphazardly as if to show she has wealth but no taste for it. She’s clearly cerulean- three eyes- but she’s not  _ your _ cerulean. Her movements are sharp and dangerous, undercut by the offbeat timing that screams “hesitant.” For whose benefit is this little show?

She draws her hand up into your personal space to rub her thumb along your embroidery. 

“Beautiful work,” she starts. Her eyes are glazed, far away as she traces the pattern. It’s not often you get to brag about your hand embroidery. 

You begin to thank her, flattered, before she brings her hand in front of her mouth to cover her mocking snickers. “For the bargain bin, that is. Tell me, how was rummaging through the trash tonight? Easy pickings?” She gives you a sharp glance up and down. Her voice is playful where her words are ice. Is she… Is she flirting with you?

“Why don’t you ask your staff,” you pointedly look towards the outskirts of the party where a line of burgundy blooded trolls hold trays of food. They are resplendent, standing stone still in their starched suits. “Or can you not afford to?” You lean into her space, showing off the sharpest of your teeth before you pluck a loose gem from her cape. She brings her hand to her chest as if she’s been physically wounded, her mouth agape.

It dawns on you that maybe you took it too far before she lets out a peal of manic laughter. “Oh, you are  _ devilishly _ in-character. Walk with me.” It’s not an invitation, you’re pulled forward like iron to a magnet. Both by her hand tight around your arm and her mind tightly wrapped around yours. You wonder who in the Sam Hill she thinks you’re costumed as. 

She makes you get her a deep purple drink. Lean doesn’t seem like her style, but she would benefit from a little calming the fuck down. The ladle’s handle is sticky and cold in your hand- no wonder she’s making you do it- and in your buzzed state only about three-quarters make it into her cup. Now that the beverage is splashed everywhere, you pick up the not-so-subtle scent of red wine mixed with grape faygo. 

Time seems to slow as you look out toward the party. Trolls everywhere are dancing in a frenzy. Your not-quite-square dancing isn’t going to cut it in this. Before you can set your feet in and decide once and for all it’s time to go, you’re pulled forward by that same magnetic force that sent you to get your fingers all sticky from drink. Every attempt at retreat is curtailed by the harsh psychic influence that refuses to let go of your mind. But it’s enough. With a stumble, you spill the drink all over the woman responsible.

She doesn’t scream. Lord, she doesn’t say anything, and she stands so still you might have thought time stopped around her. This is much worse than the verbal lashing you were expecting.

Keeping her in your sights, you back up, hands raised as if to pacify a wounded animal. You knock into the beverage table behind you in your retreat, and that signals your time to get the fuck out of there.

* * *

Hell if you’re going to let some snooty psychic ruin your good time. You’ve got a good buzz going, music in your veins, and you’re going to let it out with as much dancing as you can handle. 

The fact that you’re alone means very little to you; in fact, you much prefer your own company to the trolls on the inside of the party. You happen to know the landscape around these parts, and as you approach the lake that dips between the valley, an easy peace falls around you.

The view is exactly what you needed. Fireflies swarm at the bank, twin lights in the air and reflected in the water. Muffled music surrounds you, so distant as to be nostalgic. And, most beautiful of all, your pirate friend from earlier in the party stands silhouetted in front of it all.

“Miss Pirate,” you say, nodding your head in greeting.

“Oh no,” she says, smile heavy in her voice. “I don’t need some lowblood following me around the party because she thinks she owes me something.”

The words sting, but her tone-  _ faker, _ you think- soothes. “Ain’t you the forgery girl? Takes a fake to spot a fake,” you bump shoulders with her as she lets out a dark laugh. “Anyway, I reckon  _ you _ owe  _ me _ .”

She finally turns to face you, mischief written across every line of her face. “Oh? And why’s that? Going to teach me how to stumble blindly through a party, cowgirl?”

“I was gonna teach you how to dance, but if you can’t act like a lady about it…” you trail off. As expected, she wraps her arms around herself. She’s cold and thrumming with the same music that runs through you. 

“I’m no lady,” she says, her tone challenging. She leans forward into you.

“Is that why they kicked you out?”

She stills. It seems she didn’t think you’d catch on to that. “Or did they figure out your forgery? Mine was real, you know.”

“My forgery was fucking perfect,” her pride wounded, she’s willing to open up. “It’s those damn jesters.”

Huh?

“I was trying to network. Tonight would have been perfect except one clown caught on to me. ‘That’s not my Lady of Sorrows’ my foot!”

“You were trying to network?”

“I’m an artist.”

“You’re wearing a mask.”

She stills for the second time tonight, bringing her fingers up to her mask to confirm that, yes, she is, in fact, wearing one.

The tension dissolves and you both break into raucous laughter, you, slapping your knee and her, holding her belly.

“That’s fucking perfect,” she finally gets out. “I was so worried…” She trails off before shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You didn’t miss much. That crowd was horse shit packed into a shiny dress,”

The two of you are launched into an awkward silence.

“You know-”

“Would you like to-”

You interrupt each other. She gestures toward you, giving you permission to speak first.

“I was thinking,” you reach into your poncho and pull out the two beers and bottle of grape faygo you swindled from the party. “If you don’t want to act like a lady, neither do I.”

She smirks at you. “Says the woman who called a fancy party ‘horse shit.’” 

The beers hiss as you uncap them before bubbles start pouring from the top. It seems your walk was less smooth than you’d realized.

She laughs, delighted, as she brings the neck up to her lips to staunch the flow. She snorts and bubbles come out of her nose.

You do nothing to hold back your laugh, even as she shoves you roughly. For the first time since you’ve arrived, you’re having a great time.

* * *

She tells you her name in a whisper, as if nervous that the sound might reach the party above. 

“Remele,” you taste the words in your mouth. Tastes like grape faygo. You don’t know how clowns tolerate this stuff; even though your last sip was twenty minutes ago, the cloying grape flavor is thick in your teeth. “I’m Skylla.” 

The two of you are ankle-deep in the lake, sitting close on an outcrop of stone. She’s whipping a willow switch through the air, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. She tells you more about her webcomic, dragging the end of the switch through the mud where she wiggles her toes. The motions are so reminiscent of a painter dragging her brush over a canvas that you’re searching for pictures without realizing it.

“Skylla…” She trails off, tilting her head as the music behind you changes. “A waltz.” With a sudden burst of emotion, she stands up, pulling herself up to stand before offering her hand to you. Her smile is wide and manic on her face. “Come on, slowpoke, a waltz is like square dancing,  _ n’est-ce pas _ ?”

You don’t know what “ness pah” is, but you’re up to your feet before you know it. She surprises you with her sure-footed dance; the slapping sound of your combined muddy feet is ridiculous against the grace of your movements and the somber tones of the waltz. She matches your footfalls- clearly, you’re the lead here- and while the dance is awkward, it’s comfortable.

Her hands are rough in yours and she smells like acetone and sugar. She leans her head towards your shoulder before jerking back. You huff a laugh before bringing your hand to the back of her head and guiding her to lean on your chest. Her sigh is cool and steady against your pulse.

“Why are we dancing at some lame-o party,” she says. It’s not a question, not really. 

“That’s what you do at parties.”

“Hm,” her hum is sharp and doubtful. “It’s more boring than I thought it would be.” She pulls back, looking up to you with the same mischievous look she gave you when you first met her. “I’m stealing you.” She says. Then she gives a nod of her head like she wasn’t sure of herself until she said it.

“What?” She pulls you forward, back toward the party, stumbling as she grabs both pairs of your shoes and passing them back to you. “Where are we going? How?”

“I’m  _ stealing _ you,” she repeats like it’s obvious. “You’re a cowgirl, right?” The two of you have stopped in front of her motorcycle. It doesn’t remind you anything of her, yellow spikes screaming ‘danger.’ She starts the engine and gives a few good revs before offering her hand to you. “So let’s ride.” 

To hell with it. You let out an honest to goodness ‘whoop’ as you climb on behind her, wrapping your arms tight around her before she takes off.

The bike wobbles and nearly stalls as the two of you ride like the wind.

“Are you sure you know how to drive this thing?” you shout to her.

“This is my first time!” She laughs as she yells back at you. You can’t help it; you laugh too. Of course she stole the bike, too.

You’ve known better girls, and you’ve known smoother rides. But that was Plato’s cave. Those were pale shadows of this girl, of this ride. You wrap your arms tighter around her and let her steal you for tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> "But Silas, if Skylla's invitation was legit, then who sent it?"
> 
> I did. I sent that invite.


End file.
